What Happened in Budapest
by Lydia Jaackson-Oberman
Summary: Two assassins sent to kill each other are surprised by what they find instead.
1. Step One

Agent Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, was having a hell of a good time. He had always loved the chase, loved the feeling of seeing and not being seen. Also, he had to admit, his target wasn't bad to look at from behind. In fact, this was one of the best jobs he'd ever had: women, alcohol, etc. etc. It wouldn't be fair to say Barton was the shallow type that only enjoyed those things, but it also wouldn't be fair to say he didn't

_Oh, yes, I enjoy those things,_ he thought, his eyes running over her ass, which he had to admit was very, very nice. _Fuck yes I enjoy this job, far more than I probably should._

Natasha Romanoff, aka his target, was walking a couple hundred feet ahead of him, humming carefreedly. She stopped every once in awhile the same way a tourist might, admiring the architecture and taking pictures of the scenery. Barton smiled, checked his watch as if he was running late, shaped his face into a startled look, then began jogging.

In reality he was catching up to Romanoff.

_One block and I'll be there,_ he thought, reaching his hand under his bulky overcoat and feeling the arrows slung on his back. _One more block. She won't even see me coming..._

Natasha had seen him coming the second he'd begun tailing her. To make sure she knew exactly where he was (not that she needed to, but backups are always good), she checked the reflections in the windows every once in awhile. She even hummed a little under her breath. She knew she shouldn't be enjoying this and all, but Agent Barton was kind of cute, even if he wasn't really her type. Nevertheless, he wasn't bad looking. She stopped humming. If the situation had been any other, if she hadn't been ordered to kill him...

Natasha shrugged. She didn't especially care, really. There were men everywhere. That was one thing you could count on.

The next time she checked a window, Barton was jogging. This made her smile. _Finally. I was wondering whether he'd make a move,_ she thought. _This is about to get a lot more interesting._

Barton's arm was still under his coat, tensed and ready. As he stepped lightly to a foot behind her, she suddenly turned around and smiled at him sweetly.

_Shit,_ he thought.

"Do you need directions?" She asked in fluent Hungarian, twirling a lock of her (temporarily) brown hair around her finger.

"Yes, actually. Could you show me to-" Barton frantically thought of dark places he'd scouted the day before.

"Could you show me to the Szimpla?" he said in equally good Hungarian.

Natasha's right pointer finger twitched imperceptibly. She put on a flirty smile.

"Of course. Follow me."

Barton did. He'd stuck Plan B in a corner by the back of his head. He'd been sure that he wouldn't need it.

And look now.

She was far better than he had thought she'd be.

Also she was drop-dead gorgeous. Which didn't help matters. He imagined what she'd look like after they'd done what they were going to do to her, after-

Natasha walked in the bar, felt something was missing, and walked back out.

"You coming?" she asked pointedly, watching Barton watch her.

"Just admiring the... Architecture," Barton said, and followed her in.

Hungry Hungarian eyes followed Natasha as they walked in, focusing on different parts of her body. She seemed unfazed by this, but Barton saw her shoulders tense slightly.

"Two beers, please," she said. The bartender looked up.

"Of course, beautiful," he said, winking, quickly flicking his eyes up and down Natasha's body.

Barton was incredibly pissed the bartender. Sure, he himself'd been admiring her curves barely twenty minutes ago, but it was still a very unclassy thing to do it so obviously, in such a public place. And besides that, Barton hadn't said anything creepy.

"Clint." Barton started at his name being spoken, then realized that in spacing out his eyes'd been boring into Natasha's breasts. He almost blushed, but he was trained too well.

"Yes?" he said, not stopping to ask why they were suddenly on a first name basis. After all, they were supposed to be strangers, he was ordered to bring her back with him, and she was the target. They were playing a game. Why wasn't she following the rules?

"Clint, what do you do for a living?" she asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her plump lips. Barton found himself following them with his eyes. _Christ, she doesn't know what she's doing to me. Maybe this isn't such a good job. I'm not supposed to be thinking about her lips, she's a distraction, shit, god, those goddamn lips are so amazing. What if I pressed my lips to hers? Nobody would mind, nobody would mind-_

"I said, what do you do for a living?" Natasha asked again. Barton snapped out of it.

"I... I'm a professional archer. Working to get to the Olympics."

"Really. What are you doing in Budapest?"

"I'm on vacation."

"In December. Shouldn't you be training?"

"Shh, don't tell my trainer." he smiled at her, and she smiled back.

After five beers, Barton thought that maybe he'd had five too many. Natasha seemed to be swaying from side to side too, so if she was as drunk as he was, he'd probably be able to bring her back to his flat with her. Then they could snuggle, and have a sleepover.

Wait. She wasn't- He was the one swaying. Shit. He noticed the full glass of beer in front of her. Had she just gotten a refill? She wasn't touching it. Maybe he should finish it off for her. Wouldn't make much of a difference.

Barton reached across the counter. His hand wasn't going where he wanted it to go, so he tried to bring his other hand to help, and ended up falling over.

"I fell over," he said, giggling a little, his vision blurring. He saw an angel looking down on him.

"You're going to need to come with me," the angel said sternly.

Barton felt a question mark fall out of his ear. "To where? Heaven?" he laughed. That's where they were going, that was it. He was feeling so good, he must be good to go to Heaven. He remembered his mommy's voice in his ear and her songs in his head. He started singing:

"Our Father, which art in Heaven..." he sang under his breath.

"To our hotel, sweetheart," she said sternly, laughing a bit, as if talking to a child. She held his hand and pulled him up easily.

Barton liked her hand. It felt nice, like a turtle.

They somehow made it out of the bar. When women gave them strange looks, Natasha smiled and gave them a face like "What can you do? Men, am I right?" and they smiled back sympathetically and moved on. When men gave them strange looks, Natasha made sure they saw her body, and usually all the things they had to say would disappear. Thankfully nobody tried to go down on her that night. She couldn't bear to lose any time. Her flight was tomorrow.

Sometimes Barton'd give her such a completely sweet and trusting look that she'd feel bad for a tiny moment. But then she'd remember, and haul him with even greater intensity.

They finally arrived at Natasha's hotel, fifteen minutes later. This was due partly to Natasha's navigational skill, and largely to her stamina. Agent Barton weighed more than he looked, and she mentally tucked that in her mind for future practices.

She was relieved when they got to the hotel room. She laid him on one of the beds (there were two, she'd made sure of it), and sat down on the foot of the other one. She almost immediately heard snoring from Barton, and she took this time to observe him. Neat, short brown hair. Strong arms, looked like they were probably tensed a lot. He wasn't what she considered hot, but she knew some people would probably find him attractive.

His chest rose and fell, and she found herself checking his pulse. Sluggish, from all that alcohol. She hadn't even needed a tranquilizer, he'd tranquilized herself.

This job had been almost too easy, and she was almost disappointed. Barton was supposed to be one of the best of the best.

"You let me down," she said, sitting on the edge of his bed and kicking her feet at the carpet.

Then she got up, brushed her teeth, took a quick shower, and laid on her own bed. Her internal alarm was set at five am. She was ready for step two.


	2. Step Two

STEP TWO

Natasha woke up exactly thirty seconds before she had planned to, sweating. Mornings were the only time she allowed herself to breathe a little, to pull out some of her tightly-wound threads.

Barton was still snoring peacefully on the other bed, kind of looking like a puppy. Natasha got up, walked over, and gently patted him on the head. He smelled a bit like beer. Not surprising, she thought. Added to what she slipped in his drink, it wouldn't be a shock if he stayed asleep until Moscow. She slid her sleeve down and checked the thin watch she always wore, the one accessory she cared about. Approximately four hours and twenty seven minutes until her success. Until Barton woke up.

Natasha supposed that she'd already succeeded, but it didn't really count as a victory until the whole thing was over.

She got up, shaking her head at the time she'd just wasted, and walked in the bathroom. She closed the door behind her and locked it, as a habit. You could never be too careful. After brushing her teeth and washing her face, she got in the shower, rinsed herself off in ice-cold water, and got out with the hotel towel wrapped around her.

"So, Clint, how long have you been here?"

Barton shifted a bit in the doorway and shrugged lazily.

"Don't ask questions you know the answer to."

Natasha smiled a little, then shook her head.

"Your turn," she said, walking over and guiding him over to the shower, wrinkling her nose a bit at his sticky skin.

Natasha made sure the door was locked (again). Extra precautions wouldn't hurt, she thought, and pushed the wardrobe against the door. Then she changed.

Twenty minutes later, Natasha was impatient as hell.

"Hawkeye, what in the name of God are you doing in there?" she shouted through the bathroom door, so angry she forgot to call him by his first name, and thus take the upper hand.

When he didn't answer, she picked the lock and went in.

Barton sat on the tiles, the shower running behind him. He looked up at her and grinned.

"Thought you'd never come in."

* * *

The next thing Natasha knew she was falling out the bathroom, an arrow stuck in her upper arm. A flutter of a smile darted across her face.

"Sorry," said Barton, shrugging again. "It's nothing personal."

"I know," she said. "When will it start kicking in?"

"About two minutes."

"Huh. Nicely played, Clint."

"Thanks. You're not bad either."

"I just have one last request."

"Yeah?"

"Could you turn off that shower? You know how much water you're wasting?"

Barton smiled wider.

"Okay."

It was only then that Natasha realized Barton shouldn't have been awake at all, not after last night. Her eyes widened suddenly, and Barton saw the realization in them.

Then she blacked out.

* * *

Barton stood up and bent over her. He felt compelled to maybe... Poke her a bit, erm, try things out, see if she felt as good as she looked, but he stopped himself.

This is just a job, he reminded himself. Also, that's a violation of her personal space- Aw, fuck it. She'd never know. He put one finger on her breast, through the leather jacket, and felt his cheeks flush a little. Oh my God, he thought. Stop, stop- He trailed his finger down her waist, then her hip, and her (amazing) leg.

Everything was soft, but firm, and wonderful in all the right ways. His heart literally ached a little, and so did other parts of his body. Oh my God, this is so awkward, I'm supposed to- OH my God, there's only-

Barton was glad there were still twelve hours until the flight. He thought he'd probably stop feeling this warm and tingly by then.

God, her eyes were gorgeous, even closed. Like two perfect eggshells fringed by light strawberry eyelashes. And her lips- She was so beautiful. Not in that fakey-fake-my-boobs-are-half -silicon way, but in that he was sure she was in a painting somewhere. A good one that showed her off correctly.

Oh, shit, the arrow was still stuck under her shoulder. Barton pinched it a bit to make sure the drug was all gone. There was still some left inside, but he pulled it out anyway. He felt a bit bad about all this knocking-out business. Then again, there had to have been something in his drink last night...

Good thing he had an amazing ability to stomach alcohol. No hangovers, nothing, but the drawback was that he never remembered anything that happened during his drunkness. And he'd heard some good stories about things he'd done.

Like that time he woke up in a potted plant. Not one of his better days.

Or that time he woke up and found the most beautiful woman ever in the shower of her hotel room, and that someone'd tucked him in.

Wait.

Oh, yeah.

* * *

Natasha woke up slowly, going from full-on-blackout sleep to that weird place between dreams, a symphony playing amongst floating pictures and pastel-ish colors, then finally to that disoriented awake state. She kept her eyes closed and took a deep breath. Then she remembered.

"Wh-" her voice sounded throaty and phlegmy. She coughed and tried again. "Where are we, Clint?"

Barton whipped around from his vantage point on the balcony. To be honest, he'd only just noticed the view at all. He'd been watching Natasha sleep (or stay knocked-out, whichever you prefer) for hours.

And he'd been planning to do it for a few more.

"Natasha? Why are you- Why are you- Oh, shit." Clint ran back inside, took the plastic bag out of the trash can, and looked at the liquid pooling in the bottom.

There was a lot of liquid. A lot of leftover tranquilizer. A lot of tranquilizer he'd neglected to notice was still in the arrow when he pulled it out.

Probably because he was a bit distracted.

* * *

Barton stood looking at the arrow, then looking at Natasha, then looking at the arrow, and at Natasha again.

"Funny, no one's staying asleep for long today, huh?" Natasha asked. "You were supposed to be asleep for a long time."

"So were you," said Barton, hating himself for what this woman made him feel and the mistakes he made because of her. Natasha made a face kind of like "Eh, true." Then she opened her mouth again and spoke.

"But you made a juvenile mistake, with your arrow. Considering the amount of beer, and... Well, you should've stayed knocked out for hours more. That was more alcohol than I've had in the past month, and-"

"And?"

"And nothing." For some reason Natasha didn't want to tell him that she'd slipped something in his drink.

"And you slipped something in my drink?"

Natasha shrugged and smiled a little. "Yeah. I'm surprised you-"

"I've got a good stomach for alcohol."

"Must be more than just a good stomach."

Barton shrugged.

* * *

Natasha was pissed. Here was why:

They'd missed their flight,

the next available flight to Moscow was the next day,

Barton was annoyingly get-along-able, and

Barton was kind of cute.

Number three was a problem because this time, she wasn't on the same team as Barton. It was also a problem because Barton no longer remembered the last time they'd been together. It was times like this Natasha really hated the KGB.

Oh wait, she hated them at all times.

Never mind that. This time, Barton was clumsier, he made more mistakes than he should've. She couldn't help but think that this was an aftereffect of the mind-wipe.

God, she hated them. Thank God she'd-

This game would've been so much more fun if he was as competent as he was last time.

She hated that she'd had something to do with how he wasn't. God, she goddamn hated the KGB.


End file.
